


A Whisper of Flames

by Gryff_inTheGame



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Dark, Death, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Veela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16220786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryff_inTheGame/pseuds/Gryff_inTheGame
Summary: She has come to realise, even as he closes his eyes, that he is beautiful; and without rhyme or reason, she hopes that maybe he thinks the same about her too.The Fairest Of The Rare's "Sing-Me-A-Rare."Winner: Best wild card.Winner: The pairing you didn't know you needed.Admins mention: thewaterfalcon.Runner up: Best thriller.





	A Whisper of Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Vol.2.  
> Much love to my Alpha: MotherofBulls  
> and Beta: saintdionysus X
> 
> I asked for a wildcard pairing and song.  
> Song: Rooms on fire by Stevie Nick's. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading!

* * *

The dull sky is lit with bursts of electricity; lightning flashing constantly as thunder claps dangerously close overhead. Gabrielle has little places to hide—the majority of the trees around her have been burnt to a crisp, left smouldering among the shrubs.

She jogs awkwardly, trying to shift the weight of her broken ankle to the other. Each step is an agonising reminder of the future she is trying to escape.

Gabrielle is grateful for the lingering smoke covering the stench of burnt bodies, as they lay in a ditch some 500 metres away. She doesn't want to think about the people sleeping there, knowing they'll never wake up.

There's an intense feeling of regret swirling around the empty contents of her stomach. The guilt, an incessant pang in her chest. Her heart hurts too. As though there is an invisible hand gripping her life force, giving it a vicious squeeze. It leaves an endless ache in her chest and makes it almost impossible to breathe. Sometimes she has to remind herself to inhale a desperate gasp of air to fill her lungs. This is one of those times. Except the night air is sharp and bitter, like that of bloody, broken glass and the shards of air slice her dry throat.

Gabrielle should be running, but she's exhausted. She's missing a shoe, her ankle swollen and heavy, and the memory of her breaking it still as fresh as the injury itself as the pain lingers.

Coming to a complete stop, Gabrielle takes momentary refuge on the ground, among the biggest pile of shrubs she can find. Her once pristine, glowy skin is now camouflaged perfectly in filth, making it easier for her to conceal herself in the dense weeds. It's been five years since Voldemort won the Battle of Hogwarts; five years she has been fighting to survive in this war.

They will realise she is gone soon.

They will come for her eventually and to make matters worse, she has no doubt the werewolf will pick up on her Veela scent, even if she is just a quarter-breed. The beast was sniffing around the carcasses like a last meal.

Peering into the depths of the night, Gabrielle reminisces the last time she felt the warmth of the sun kiss her cheek. Her now less than lustrous hair, once thick and silvery, is matted and rusty with leaves, debris and dried blood. Clumps of it fall out, as she strokes her trembling hands through the ends of her tresses. In times like this, she uses what little memories she has left for comfort, fondly remembering the sweet scent of her mother’s shampoo; An alluring combination of freesia, jasmine, lilies and subtle hints of crème brûlée. The liquid is somewhat of a tradition, passed through many generations of Veela—though each family has a signature aspect of that scent—her family’s being the creme brulee.

Hope is the driving force that motivates people in situations like this. Hope is the key to her survival. Reuniting with her Mother...it is a fool's hope.

Many minutes pass and Gabrielle is having trouble pushing through the pain of rising on her ankle, but the sudden snap of twigs nearby has her shakily finding her feet.

Further seconds go by in silence, Gabrielle unintentionally holds her breath. She wants to move, but her body is numb—frozen in cold-blooded fear.

The snapping of twigs and shuffling of feet resume, growing closer as they echo through the night. The confirmation that someone is tracking her is enough to bring movement back into her body. She begins slowly, each step sending a shooting pain up her leg.

The sky grows darker, clouds resembling the same roughness as stormy seas. There's an unknown intensity to the air as Gabrielle draws in a heavy breath, her heart beating erratically as she looks over her shoulder. No matter how hard she tries, the feeling of being watched—she just can't shake. If Gabrielle continues to gaze into the shadows, she is sure she will see the outline of something, and she doesn't want to hang around long enough to spy it.

The unknown is uneasy as she charges forth into a jog, her broken ankle causing her to limp uncontrollably, a whimper escaping her lips. Each step she takes is agonising as paranoia and exhaustion kick in.

In the distance, tall trees outline the horizon, and Gabrielle attempts to run faster, harder, aiming towards the forest ahead. Although it’s cold, beads of sweat prickle her forehead, causing the unruly pieces of hair framing her face to stick to her.

This big open space has her feeling exposed and vulnerable, if she can make it to the trees, if she can just reach the edge of the forest, sanctuary awaits.

* * *

Across the open field, eyes watch the young, injured Veela. Her pathetic attempt to flee almost comical. Nothing but a dark shadow, he waits. Anything to excite the chase. She is weak and injured—easy pickings for a hearty beast such as himself. Fenrir is far from patient, but he admires the girl's determination.

Fenrir stalks forward, his tongue swiping his canines. His appetite for young virgins his motivation. He can smell her from across the field—her fertility—unspoiled and ripe as a cherry. All Fenrir’s movements are strategic, set to taunt his prey. He likes it best when he can taste fear in their blood.

The girl takes a few agonising steps forward—he shuffles his feet, crunches on leaves… Her fear is so strong, the girl refuses to look behind her, knowing he is there waiting to pounce.

The beasts shoulders grow larger, wider upon his approach. Confident and cocky, his clawed feet strut through the grimy field, her tracks leading a direct path to her, her visibility so clear it's amusing. He is so close he can almost feel the tender flesh of her throat in his mouth. It's been a while since he’s fed on the likes of a Veela. No matter the strength of blood, they all have a distinct seasoning. Rare. Magical. Forbidden. The taste is euphoric and satisfying. He doubts her small frame will be more than an entree, but she’ll be enough, for now. Since Voldemort deemed him unworthy of the mark, he’s been out on his own—living to his own means. No codes, no consequences and no one to stop him.

With Fenrir’s patience wearing thin, as the girl is a short few meters from the forest's edge, he makes his grand entrance.

* * *

 

Panting, Gabrielle clutches her side as an intense stitch stabs the lower edge of her rib cage. Her ankle is in rough shape as she fights the will to give in and rest. She contemplates crawling the rest of the way and her knees tremble at the thought. Her throat is so dry, it burns, and when she licks her lips, not even the salt from her sweat can satiate her thirst.

The forest is within reach as Gabrielle stretches her arms towards it, greeting it needy like an old friend. Before she can grip the bark of a tree, an unimaginable growl erupts, so close, there's no echo.

She shrieks, tears falling freely as her chest shakes in fear. Her panting becomes a struggle as she feels his breath on the back of her neck.

He inhales deeply.

“Hello there, little girly,” already a satisfied hum in his sinister tone.

She doesn't speak. Doesn't dare to even breathe.

“Don’t be like that girly, or do. It makes no difference to me, you'll taste just the same.” Fenrir says, clicking his tongue.

Gabrielle trembles at her impending doom. There are so many things she wants from this life. None of it has been possible with the strength of this lingering war. All she wants to do is find somewhere safe. All she wants to do is survive.

She yelps as he nips the back of her shoulder, he growls back in a delightful glee. Something wet travels down her back, blood or saliva—she doesn't know, but it makes no difference, it all means the same thing; Gabrielle is going to die today, and there's no way of escaping his wrath. Years of running and long nights of reliving the past is finally about to come to an end. She hopes it will be quick.

* * *

 

Wards at the edge of the forest have been triggered. This particular section is known to be a hotspot for members of the Order. Whoever the poor soul is, he needs to get to them first, if they're to have any chance of surviving. If one of the others gets there first…he doesn't want to think about what will happen. It’s too much. He’s seen too much. He should know.

Theo makes his way towards the forest edge, having the upper hand being closer, though it won't be long before others will be on his tail. It's so rare they find magical folk these days—the majority well hidden, trying to ride out this war. He is Switzerland. Just a one-man team working on the same side as the Dark Lord, standing against everything his _Lord_ believes in. He wants this war to be over as much as the next person. There's been so much loss. Too much heartache.

In the world as he knows it, hate and fear breeds like a common whore and life and death is as simple as breathing.

Reaching the beginning of the wards, Theo sees a slim figure with long dishevelled hair, half concealed by the trees. He approaches her quickly, quietly, finally catching sight of her unwanted accomplice. As her face comes into view, he recognises her features. Underneath all the dirt and blood he can tell she's a few years younger than he is and very beautiful. As he peers into her tear-filled eyes, he is mesmerised. The rest of the world seems to fall away, as he draws near her. His ignorance of the threat behind her stands corrected when Fenrir finally captures his attention, breaking his trance-like state.

“Greyback, what brings you to this side of the forest? The Dark Lord won't be impressed you're hunting his prisoners for lunch,” coos Theo smugly. A quick distraction to aggravate the werewolf.

“And what of it, Nott? Your precious Lord won't miss one little girly, now will he?”

“That's where you're wrong, Greyback,” Theo confidently steps forward. “There's a sanction to retrieve all Half-breeds—yourself included. Won't be long until the rest arrive,” his eyes scan the area convincingly, as if looking for his brethren.

“Pretty little thing, isn't she? Young Nott. Collecting for yourself, perhaps?” Chides Fenrir, cockily.

Theo smirks wickedly, a devilish twinkle in his eyes, “She looks like a mess if you ask me. Keen to take us all on for lunch are you? Bella is aching to make you pay for biting her.”

Fenrir tilts his head like a dog, a low growl slips through his teeth.

Knowing his time is running out, Theo gives him an ultimatum.

“You can be on your merry way, you know? I'll take the girl and forget I saw you. Your choice.” He reaches forward and grabs Gabrielle, yanking her away from the enraged werewolf.

Fenrir remains distracted—his ears perking up at the loud, consistent POPs appearing in the forest and the clearing. He growls louder at the inconvenience—the brethren have arrived.

A wicked squeal erupts across the stretch of field, Bellatrix is cackling crazed and enraged.

Fenrir crouches low, his body now on all-fours as he breaks into a run. Curses follow his mere escape, creating enough of a distraction for Theo to take the girl and he does so, swiftly.

Theo’s grip is tight, but not enough to hurt her as she thrashes back and forth.

“Leave me alone!” Gabrielle screeches momentarily, before a hand cups her mouth.

“Be quiet, will you?” Hushes Theo innocently, but she doesn't buy it.

Gabrielle bites his hand, her teeth puncturing through his calloused palm.

Gritting his teeth, Theo cusses. “Ouch, you bitch! I didn't want to do this, but you leave me no choice! Stupefy.”

With that, all she manages to think is: _you bastard_ —before blacking out.

* * *

Groaning slightly, Gabrielle attempts to cup her head, but her hands are restrained. She squeezes her eyelids groggily, before forcing them slightly apart. Her vision is a blur through heavy lashes, her eyes sensitive from the light of a lantern on the dresser. She blinks several times, trying to loosen up her lids until their movement reaches full mobility. In the corner of the room, curled up on an old velvet green chaise is the Death Eater she can only presume, who took her.

Thirsty, but restrained, she tries to wake him.

“Excuse me,” she squeaks croakily. Her throat still dry and sore.

In between coughing, she tries a little louder, “Hello?”

Theo snaps his eyes open, scanning the room immediately. He sits abruptly, slipping on his boots.

“Finally,” he mutters. “Not even magic could wake you.”

He approaches her bedside, where an empty bottle of Skele-gro lay. Beside it is a pitcher of water. He pours her a generous glass, inserting a straw and leaning over, offers her a sip. Instead of being cautious, Gabrielle gulps hastily—emptying the glass quicker than he can pour it.

“Take it easy! There's plenty more,” he assures.

Gabrielle downs a second glass, gratefully.

“I take it you're hungry?” he asks.

“If you're going to spoon feed me like a slave then how can I resist?” Gabrielle quips with a smirk. “But I would prefer to be clean before I eat. I don't suppose you can untie me so I can bathe?”

“That depends on whether or not you're going to try and do something stupid like escape or worse—attack me?” He inquires mockingly, while smoothly running his fingers through his hair. He doesn't know why he suddenly feels self-conscious, as though he needs to impress her. There’s a strange beat to his heart making him feel nervous and confused, and he feels himself being drawn to her like a gravitational pull, magnetic—as though the fates themselves have written her in the stars just for him.

Gabrielle chuckles lightly, “Can’t get very far with a munted foot now, can I?”

Half-heartedly, he agrees.

“Okay. I'm going to untie you but seriously—no funny business. I don't want to hurt you.”

Appreciatively, she nods knowing very well that she's not fit for any outlandish escape mission. Besides, she isn't in a holding cell and he's being nice to her so surely—he’ll be good on his word? Gabrielle can only hope.

“Do you have a name?” she asks sheepishly, a rose blush tinting her cheeks. She can't ignore how attractive the man before her is.

“You can call me Theo—that's all. But I think it's wise not to discuss me to anyone you know in the future, given my position in the current world. Don't tell me yours. It’s best that I don't know.” He avoids his magic and unties her by hand, his fingertips tracing lightly over her wrists. Upon touching her, he feels a static-like-spark and wonders if she feels it too. He assesses her, silently watching her watch him and he notices the little hairs on her arms standing up. He pulls away abruptly, breaking their connection and stumbles back awkwardly.

“Um, I should go and make you something to eat. There's some fresh clothes in the bathroom—they're mine, so they'll be too big, but I'll find you something else as soon as I can.” His face is blotchy and red, and he glances at the fireplace thinking the room temperature is too much.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Theo, but I'm not exactly in much of a state to walk. You're going to have to help me,” she insists, innocently.

Theo blushes again, chastising himself at the obvious. He has such unclear thoughts around this young woman.  
“Oh, of course, I'll just—run you a bath? You’ll be okay in a bath, right?”

Gabrielle shrugs in agreement, “I guess so.”

Theo eases Gabrielle out and of bed and carries her into the bathroom. The tub is already filling up when they enter, soap suds gloriously bubbling away. There's a variety of hair potions and bath bombs on a shelf beside the bath and Gabrielle is in awe, having not been able to have a proper wash in months.

He goes to place her in the tub, fully clothed in her filthy garments and she exclaims, “You're not seriously expecting me to magically remove my clothes are you?” An amusing twinkle in her eye.

Embarrassed and uncomfortable, Theo rests her on the edge of the tub, easing her out of her shirt and pants. The only time he takes off a woman’s clothing is when he’s about to fuck her—this situation is not ideal… He thanks the stars her undergarments are basic and modest.

“Don’t tell me you can't slip those off yourself—”

“You're quite the gentleman, Theo,” she praises, appreciating his respect as he lowers her into the tub. As soon as the door closes, she removes the rest of her clothing, admiring his selection of shampoos.

The water is muddy by the time she is finished. Her wet hair scooped up into a bun atop her head. As the water becomes lukewarm, finally, Theo returns.

Theo halts at the door, realising she is naked. A little detail he failed to realise when leaving her there. The bubbles in the tub still hid her, but the majority of her skin is exposed. This calls for desperate measures. Theo jams his eyes closed and attempts to maneuver her out of the tub with his magic. He charms a towel to dry her, and the clothes dress her autonomously.  
He took the liberty of changing the bed sheets too, the linen crisp and fresh.

Theo levitates her back to bed, being careful to elevate her healing ankle. The pillows prop up her back so she is able to eat.

“Thank you,” Gabrielle beams sincerely, while he exits to fetch what she can only assume is dinner. As the minutes pass, her eyes grow heavier than her stomach pains, and the excitement of sleeping in a real bed overwhelms her. Gabrielle closes her eyes and gently drifts off to sleep.

* * *

_There are chunks of dirt and debris up her nose. In the depths of the muddy pit, she is suffocating under numerous body parts. Desperate and fading fast, Gabrielle is trying to claw her way out, but the crisp bodies on top of her are dead weight. She turns her head to see what is caught between her toes—chestnut coloured hair is wrapped around them, blue glazed eyes stare back at her. She tries to scream, but no sound escapes, as silent tears roll down her face. She begins shaking her foot but the tangled hair grows tighter, the image burns into her skull, as constriction in her throat causes her to hyperventilate._

_In her panic, she begins sinking—the bodies like quicksand of ash, as she descends into the clutches of death._  
_Arms, legs and dismembered heads crumble around her. She tries harder to climb as the sudden appearance of voices grows closer. She needs to get out and run!_

_Her broken ankle hadn't been noticeable during the fall, until now. Gabrielle tries to scream once more, the true horror she is living now revealing itself, as she makes it over the threshold of the pit and looks down. A lengthy wail escapes her lips—_

* * *

“Hey! Wake-up!” shouts Theo, gently shaking her shoulders.

Sitting abruptly, Gabrielle peels her eyes open. Her hands shaking, as trembling fingers pull tightly at the sheets—the expression on her face blank and lifeless. With eyes full of terror and pain, he wonders what in the hell this girl has been through.

“Hey. Are you with me? It's ok, you're safe,” soothes Theo. Not quite sure what to do. Sure he's seen his fair share of bad in the world—whatever she’s gone through, he had no idea it can be worse.

She begins to sob, her fingers leaving the comfort of the sheets, curling themselves around Theo’s shirt. He doesn't stop her; instead, he leans closer, his arms folding around her. She weeps into his chest, her grip tightening, but he doesn't stop her. He only wants to help make her feel better. He wants to take the pain away.

* * *

 

Gabrielle doesn't know why she finds comfort in Theo or why she feels safe in his arms. Perhaps, it’s because he rescued her? It doesn't make sense that he be kind and caring or helpful. She has seen the mark on his arm—the mark of a Death Eater. If he’s going to keep her safe than she needs to understand. _Why_? _How_? For the moment, Gabrielle is exhausted, and when he goes to move away, she whispers, “ _Please stay_.”

Obliging her request, he crawls beside her, as she lay back down. Facing him, Gabrielle finds his eyes captivating as he peers back at her. Something swells in the cage of her chest, accompanied with an unfamiliar flutter. The room is dark, except for the flickering shadows from the warmth of the fire. Flames dance eloquently across his face. She has come to realise, even as he closes his eyes, that he is beautiful; and without rhyme or reason, she hopes that maybe he thinks the same about her too.

* * *

It’s well into the afternoon when Gabrielle awakens. The fire has now diminished into a dull series of cracks and pops, but the warmth remains. Without thinking she stretches her legs, extending her feet, realising her ankle is healed. A momentous shrill of glee leaves her lips, and she awkwardly slaps her hand to it, not knowing if she is alone. 

Gabrielle notices the empty space on the bed where Theo slept, the sheets still perfectly indented to the shape of his frame. She mustn't have moved a muscle after he joined her and she wonders where he is? Gently running a light palm over where he laid, she feels foolish for doing so. Instinctively, her hand snaps back as though his side of the sheets are forbidden to touch; but she doesn't refrain from brushing her fingertips across her lips.

Suddenly ravenous, a growl of her stomach reminds her that she hasn't eaten a proper meal in weeks. Gabrielle ventures out of the safety of the bedroom and decides to find the kitchen.

The house itself is rather small, a cottage perhaps, made of hardwood—aged mahogany. The walls seem structurally sound, but defects of splits, dark streaks and stains remain. The walls are covered in paintings of various landscapes from all around the world. In one picture, a small wooden cottage stands surrounded by thick trees in a heavily wooded area. Snowflakes fall delicately over the top, frosting the rooftop generously in off-white snow. There’s a light on inside, a bright glow shining from the top floor window.

Another picture shows a choppy ocean with a small island in the distance. It's hard to see the small crooked house built on it, it looks rather confined. Yet she is drawn to the small imperfections in the paintwork. It hasn't aged well—ocean blues fade into swirls of murky grey, and the picture has clumps of paint remaining in spots where the brush tip has obviously stopped and started.

Gabrielle minds her step walking down the stairs when she comes to a painting hidden underneath a black curtain. A light gust rustles the fabric, an invitation to look, perhaps? Curiosity getting the best of her, she allows herself to sneak a peak, but the curtain won't budge. She tries again when a familiar voice from behind her says, _“Don’t touch that one, do you understand?”_

Snapping her head back in surprise, Theo is standing at the back door, removing his ebony cloak as he enters.

“The paintings are portkeys, ok? I have them in all of my properties. They are safe to use—except this one.” He points to the black curtain hissing in the wind. A wave of his hand silences the breeze, and stops the curtain from moving. “That's your ticket to The Malfoy Mansion—you don’t want to end up there. Believe me.” Theo shakes his shoulders, as if brushing off a chill.

“I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke,” he says while leading her through to the kitchen. “I had to step out for the day. Work.”

Gabrielle nods in understanding. She doesn't need an explanation as to what he's been doing today. She doesn't want it to taint the good she sees in him.

“It's late in the afternoon, are you okay with an early dinner?” He asks.

“I'm not fussy about meal times—just grateful for your hospitality,” she replies shyly. Although she speaks a hushed tone, her kind eyes express gratitude.

Smiling, Theo encourages her to take a seat at the bench, while he fetches the ingredients to whip up what looks to be soup. His wand work is flawless. She thinks he must have learnt a lot of housekeeping charms from his mother to be so adept in the kitchen. It makes her heart hurt at the thought. Her mother taught her many things, but she wonders if Theo’s mother is still alive too, or if he has been on his own a long time?

While dinner is cooking, he asks to check her ankle, pulling up a shorter stool beside her. He gently rests her foot on his leg and is pleased with the way her ankle has healed.

“When the war is over, I'll make a great Healer!” He beams.

Chuckling, Gabrielle doesn't have to heart to explain to him that making someone swallow Skele-gro, isn't the equivalent of a Healer. She admires his positivity and confidence, though.

“I took the liberty of finding you some clothes—I hope they fit.”

Theo summons a small bag from by the door. Over by the kitchen table, he rises and quickly unpacks: a warm woolley cloak the colour of midnight, a few pairs of pants and long sleeved shirts, socks, boots and a smaller bag with unknown contents. “I'm not going to unpack those, but in there you'll find undergarments and toiletries. I didn't pick them out.” Blushing, he quickly repacks and hangs the small bag on the back of a chair.

“Thank you,” Gabrielle responds warmly. Her eyes twinkle in delight, a dazzling smile curling her lips. Although she bathed last night, she is beginning to feel herself again. Her hair isn't quite the same, but it has a rather lovely wave through the lengths and gives off the scent of apple pie.

It's not long before a steaming pot of pumpkin soup and crusty bread rolls are ready to serve.

Stirring the pot by hand now, Theo leans over and sniffs the contents of the saucepan.

“Mmm, come over here and try this, will you?” He convinces her with a satisfied grin.

Unable to ignore his unique charm, Gabrielle accommodates his request.

It's not until she's standing in front of him that she feels the flutter in her chest again, her heartbeat unsteady. He takes the spoon, cooling it slightly, before placing it against her lips. She opens ever so slightly, her eyes gazing into his. His eyes tear back into hers, and for a second it feels at though time has stopped. She presses her lips together, eye contact remaining while swiping the soup off the spoon. A small amount dribbles down her chin, and Gabrielle blushes at the embarrassment.

“Here, let me—” insists Theo, while taking his thumb, softly running it against the liquid dripping down her chin. His thumb reaches her bottom lip and he hovers there for a moment, as if considering what to do. They don't blink as he glides his thumb over her lip, before taking his mouth and planting it on hers.

* * *

Theo doesn't know why he felt compelled to do it. With other women—sure he’s forward, but with this girl—he doesn't even know her name. He just couldn't resist her, standing there in his baggy t-shirt. The minx had removed the pants, wearing his shirt as if it's an oversize nightie, exposing her legs for days—he's always been a leg-man.

The look of innocence upon her face while she was waiting to taste his soup...the way she studied him with that spoon in her mouth, made him picture her tasting his—

He needs to pull himself together. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on in his head. Whenever she looks at him, his mind goes foggy and he feels weak at the knees.

This intimacy between them is rare and powerful, like magic—surrounding them, pushing them together. He feels so connected to her, that to separate, they'll need to peel themselves apart. His affinity to her stretches far beyond a chemical bond. The binding—an intricate weave, forging their souls together forever more. He could drown in her lips and die happily, knowing the feel of her plump mouth.

He hasn't known magic like this before knowing her, and as she finally pulls away—he finds himself silently begging for more.

* * *

The room finally stops spinning when Gabrielle pulls away and surprisingly, she’s out of breath.

Before now, she has never had the pleasure of feeling soft lips caress her own. Theo’s tenderness leaves her with a sudden, gnawing hunger for more. The feeling growing into a fluttering warmth in the pit of her stomach is comforting. His familiarity—safe and welcoming as though her destiny has been to find him all along.

Theo watches her intently, a curious flicker in his eyes. If she didn't know any better, she can say without a doubt—he feels the hunger of their lust, too.

* * *

Eager to break the tension and remove some of the awkwardness lingering, Theo blurts out, “I didn't mean to take your breath away,” cheesily.

Gabrielle's face burns bright red, she could have slapped that lame grin off his face. Ignoring the obvious, she notices the cupboard above his head. Reaching past him, on the tips of her toes, she fetches two bowls and winks cheekily, “I didn't mean to steal yours.”

Slightly gobsmacked that the witch is capable of banter, Theo, being the smart-ass he is, bows and chuckles, “you're welcome.”

* * *

Dinner is demolished quicker than it's served and the night sets in. It's a natural progression, that the evening is spent with the two of them curled up in front of the fire, stretched across a lounge, laughing. There’s this level of comfort between them that feels forever, long-lasting. If they were lost in a crowded room, fate could bring them together.

As the evening wears on and Gabrielle begins to fall asleep, Theo whispers, “Tell me your name.”

On the brink of a deep sleep, she replies a whisper back, “Gabrielle…Gabrielle Delacour.”

Of course, the name is familiar to Theo. Fleur's little sister. Veela. It all makes sense to him now—but he knows what he feels is real. It has to be. Nothing has ever felt so right.

While she sleeps on his chest, he carries her upstairs and tucks her into bed. Ensuring the fire will last the night, Theo adds extra logs. He doesn't want to leave her alone tonight, but duty calls.

* * *

_They walk for so long, the bottoms of their shoes wear thin. The pace is getting slower due to thirst and hunger, but no one dares to make a sound. Meters away is what appears to be a fire pit. Suddenly—everyone picks up the pace, desperately wanting to feel the warmth up ahead. They charge towards the fire believing they have finally found help. As they get closer, the people around her become entranced by the flames, the heat welcoming them—the fire drawing them in._

_Gabrielle doesn't glance up ahead, realising it has been charmed to trap, capture and most likely—to kill._

_She begins screaming to stop, but they can't hear her. All they do is focus on the fire, rushing toward it, diving through the inferno, causing them to be set ablaze. Gabrielle gets caught in the stampede, but for some reason—the flames only whisper against her skin—they refuse to take her. She free falls into the pit, her ankle snapping on the way. The firestorm subsides, waiting for its next victims to arrive and Gabrielle lay among the burnt bodies, in a pool of her sweat and blood._

_She can hear a cackle approaching as she tosses and turns, trying to get away. Wanting to get out, she feels bile rising in her throat—_

* * *

Nausea wakes Gabrielle before she tastes the rising bile. Lunging from the bed, she runs into the bathroom, hand cupped to her mouth, making it to the basin just as dinner comes up. She stays curled over the sink for some time—pieces of her hair laced with pumpkin soup. Theo’s oversized t-shirt is soaked with sweat and judging by her lack of company, she realises she must be alone.

The bathroom floor is cold, and her weakened stomach makes her far too nauseated to move. Finally deciding on taking a hot shower, still dressed in Theo’s shirt, she plunges herself under the comfort of running water. Eventually, the nausea subsides, but the emotion overwhelms her as she sobs under the free flow of water.

With her back pressed against the wall, the t-shirt clings to her exhausted body.  
Gabrielle slides down, sitting on the floor. Clear liquid pools around her— when it rains it, it really pours and all she wants is him. Everything about Theo invites her in, the simplicity feels like home.

* * *

The remainder of the night is spent in the shower, until her wrinkled skin softens to resemble shrivelled prunes. Her skin tone reflects the same shade of pale as the dead of night.

Her hair sits wrapped tightly like a noose atop her head. Its lengthy ends stained a faint orange from the soup. Had she the strength—she would have scrubbed it.

Morning comes. Her eyelids battle the day to wait for him. Gabrielle flutters her lashes, fighting the depths of sleep—the comfort of a bed and a fresh shirt beckoning her, the temptation of a peaceful rest lulling her to sleep.

She loses track of time—the day and night a continuous blur of broken dreams, each moment he fails to return. In between horrendous nightmares and indulgent day dreams, she waits.

* * *

_The fire burns as vivid as ever—more than a whisper, flames of wild lashings whip and nip at her skin. Smoke fills her lungs, her dry throat choking her—_

* * *

This time her dream is different and Gabrielle wakes feeling utter fear—the room is on fire. Heavy wafts of smoke from the fireplace engulf the room—it appears a log has fallen out.

Using the neck of Theo’s t-shirt as a shield, she urgently tries to navigate around the inferno. The Veela, makes dancing among the flames look graceful, as she tries to find her way out. Time begins to slow, as the horror sets in that these flames can touch her, and as her eyes grow heavy and her breathing begins to fade, she is filled with regret having not seen him again.

* * *

Theo is alerted of a disturbance at his residence and gets home quick enough to see his house ablaze. The tightness in his chest and his churning stomach, reflect the fear and turmoil causing chaos in his heart. He runs into the house, screaming her name—thankful he asked her what it is.

He apparates to the top of the stairs, swiping at the only portkey intact—the crooked little house on the island. The rest of the artwork melts down the walls, the heat from the fire turning painted details into bubbles of muck.

The room is on fire but he finds her easily, drawn to her by the very flame she lit within him. Theo leaps across flaming floorboards—Gabrielle, resting in the bathroom doorway. He reaches for her, one finger upon her—a subtle spark is shared between them. He whisks her across moons and stars to a new location.

* * *

_Her skin aches as he applies a salve to her burns. His touch, so gentle—she finds it to be more soothing than the ointment. She wants her fingertips to trace the worry lines consuming his handsome face. To let him know that she is ok, but for some reason—she can't._

_Under the weight of her wounds, Gabrielle's focus is strained. She tries to flex a finger, her hands still as numb as the rest of her. There’s a light tingle, like pins and needles, coursing through her and for just a second, she thinks she's moved her finger._

_Subconsciously, Gabrielle watches Theo. She imagines her lips curling to form the letters to speak his sweet name. She’s giving him signals, but the lump of anxiety swirling in her chest confirms the inevitable—he just isn't receiving her._

_Although tight-lipped, her heart remains open. She is certain that if he just look at her, her eyes will magically peel open. The windows to her soul are waterless and withered, once filled with light, her brightness begins to flicker._

_The breathing apparatus is causing Gabrielle to choke. It's wedged so far down her esophagus, her inflamed tonsils swell to the invasion of her throat. Her future becomes grim, her life force dim. She can feel his flame diminishing._

_The rooms on fire, the blaze never fades._  
_She lies there lonely, while he mourns in her wake._

 


End file.
